


As Falling Snow

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Future Fic, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur could never be lost in Camelot, not on these lands he’s ranged over since boyhood, this soil he’s fought and lost and bled for.</p>
<p>Meant to accompany <a href="http://steam-pilot.livejournal.com/81074.html">art</a> by the incomparable steampilot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Falling Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for merlinreversebb's 2012 round to accompany [this absolutely gorgeous art](http://steam-pilot.livejournal.com/81074.html) by the amazing steampilot. Please leave kudos there too. :)
> 
> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/84447.html). (16 February 2012)

This is not Arthur’s fault. It is _not_ , none of it, no matter what Merlin thinks. Merlin has been complaining since before they even left the castle—since the day he arrived in Camelot, really—and Arthur has had a lot of practice ignoring him. It is not Arthur’s fault that it started snowing early in the day, skies bloated and dull with low-hanging iron clouds before the first flakes began to drift, fat and silent, to earth. Nor is it Arthur’s fault that they’d wandered further than they’d meant to in search of anything moving to hunt, and that Merlin now has no idea where they are. Merlin, Arthur thinks, should learn to pay attention.

Arthur knows _exactly_ where they are, even with the snow landing fast and thick around them. He knows the woods they’re in better than anyone in the kingdom, recognises every laden bough as he would a brother, and all Merlin’s talk about being _lost_ is just wasted air. Arthur could never be lost in Camelot, not on these lands he’s ranged over since boyhood, this soil he’s fought and lost and bled for.

“...where we’re going, Arthur,” Merlin is saying, and Arthur turns to him with a sigh, because apparently ignoring Merlin isn’t going to make him stop talking. “We’ve passed that stump four times now.”

“We have not. That is a completely different stump,” Arthur disagrees, because it is. The assurance doesn’t seem to cheer Merlin, who looks wet and miserable, his hair covered thick with snow.

“It’s the same stump; look, it’s even got the same bits sticking out to make it look like—”

“Not the same,” Arthur rules, and looks around, because he thinks they’re close to... “Hah,” he says, with no little satisfaction. “This way.”

“Which way?” Merlin says rebelliously, but he follows nevertheless when Arthur shoulders his way through a thicker patch of the underbrush. Arthur can hear him grumbling under his breath still, and makes sure the snow he knocks loose lands mostly on Merlin’s head. 

The path Arthur’s making opens into a small clearing with a frozen pond—exactly as he’d thought there would be, there is no good reason for the small swelling-up of pride he can feel between his shoulders—and half-hidden behind a cluster of young pines is a cave with a narrow opening, barely wide enough for them to slip through. The snow outside covers their tracks in minutes, piling up silently over the trees and hills until the blanket is so thick the world simply stops moving, holds its breath waiting as evening draws up slow and swallows the forest.

Arthur peers out from the cave, allowing a quiet sort of approval to fill him momentarily at their shelter while Merlin walks around making grumbly noises in the back of his throat.

“Oh, come on, Merlin,” Arthur says when Merlin gives him the third sour look in as many minutes. “This is a lovely cave; you should be glad I knew it was here, or you’d still be out in the snow.”

“I’m _ever_ so grateful, sire,” Merlin replies, in a tone Arthur is intimately familiar with and which he knows means Merlin thinks exactly the opposite. 

“I could throw you back out there,” Arthur tells him, turning back and sitting down a little way from the entrance. “This cave is mine, you know, and a king doesn’t have to put up with this sort of insubordination.”

The words send a warning pang through him, which he suppresses as best he can, but it still freezes the budding contentment in his chest as surely as the pond in winter, hidden under thick layers of ice and snow.

Merlin gives an entirely undignified snort and flops down on the ground at the back corner of the cave. “Go ahead then,” he says, far too casually. “You’ll only freeze to death without me here to keep you warm.” He stretches a hand out and twists it, whispering in a tongue that still sends shivers creeping up the back of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur’s grown used to this, over the years: the gold that flares out from Merlin’s eyes with his magic, but he’ll never be comfortable with it, never stop feeling the slightest bitter-iron tang of guilt and terror in the back of his throat when Merlin changes the world around them. Uther’s been dead these seven years and more, but his lessons linger on, strong enough that once the woodless fire has steadied and Merlin’s subsided into an unremarkable man once more, Arthur has to consciously unclench his fingers from around the pommel of his sword.

“I can make a fire as well as you can,” he points out, because he _can_ , though it would probably have been smokier than this one, what with all the wood to be found wet or frozen. 

“Of course,” Merlin says comfortably, holding his hands out to the flames. “I'd rather not freeze to death before you curse at it enough to get it going, though.”

Arthur longs to say something bitter and cutting, wants to reach for withering words and wipe the satisfaction from Merlin's face, but he only leans his head back against the cave wall and shuts his eyes, holding himself contained. He knows he should move closer to the fire—the wind is blowing more fiercely outside the mouth of the cave now, sending its currents in to eddy around him and make him shiver—but he can't quite manage it. 

It's foolish, he knows this, but that thought has never done anything to help him before, and it does nothing now. He only huddles deeper into himself, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of the air in his mouth, dragging it in slow across his teeth and tongue.

Merlin's busy with the packs, chattering to himself too low for Arthur to hear the words as he sorts through their meagre supplies, and Arthur tries to let the familiarity of it soothe him. This is a scene they've replayed a thousand times over hundreds of days, so often that Arthur could likely predict every move Merlin will make; a dance which keeps pulling them together even as the world changes around and between them: the prince and his servant; the king and his servant; the king and his closest adviser. The king and his sorcerer. 

Merlin must see the shiver which runs through him and mistake it for the cold, because Arthur hears him say, exasperated, “Stop sulking and get over here before you die from exposure, you idiot.”

“I'm not cold,” Arthur says, carefully. It's only half a lie, anyway.

Merlin scoffs. “And dung is made of roses, right.”

“Merlin.”

“You know what, when you turn into a block of ice, it'll be entirely your own fault,” Merlin says, not hearing or not heeding Arthur's tone. “ _I'm_ the one they'll blame, though, and I'll have to run before all of Camelot gets out the pitchforks and goes hunting for my blood.”

Arthur doesn't know if Merlin can see the whitening around his knuckles in the dim light, but he doubts it. Merlin's never been much of one for noticing details, anyway, and Arthur would rather not—would rather Merlin miss this, the tension Arthur can't stop from building in him at the thought of Merlin running, Merlin bound, Merlin dragged before the court and cast out, left to wander friendless through lands beyond Camelot or tied to a stake in the central square. He knows Merlin remembers the days of Uther, remembers the days before Arthur knew—well. They both remember how it was before. Arthur thinks, often, that Merlin carries those days within himself even now, a heavy burden he can't or won't lay down, although Merlin has never once said as much himself.

Wrapped up in that thought, Arthur doesn't notice at first when the air around him grows noticeably warmer. His eyes snap open and he lowers his eyebrows, scowling at Merlin. “Stop that.”

Merlin glares back. “So you can be stupid and pretend you're being noble? No. Suffering does not build character.”

“I said _stop_ it, Merlin.”

“And I said no.”

Arthur stands, surging to his feet in one angry, fluid motion, and stalks over to the mouth of the cave. He doesn't go further, because he doesn't actually want to go out into the blizzard, but he thinks about it. True night is still far off, but anyone looking at the storm would never know it: the fast-falling snow has brought darkness early, and it's impossible now to see more than an arms-length in any direction; Arthur can barely make out the first of the trees clustered around the opening. He blinks, the cold and the wind pricking at his eyes to draw moisture, the snow stinging at his cheeks and throat. 

He knows he should turn around, go back to the fire, at least get his thick cloak to pull around his shoulders, but right now it all feels too much, too fraught with everything he never allows himself to think about. Another shiver shakes its way through him, and he crosses his arms in front of him, letting his head bow until he can tuck his chin against his chest. He'll only stay for another moment, just until everything settles again and he can go on as he always does. He can't afford more than a moment, not ever, not now. Not when a kingdom depends on him, on the clarity of his thought.

It takes too long for him to register that Merlin's standing next to him, the deep red of Arthur's cloak hung over his arm. Arthur can't remember taking it off.

“You shouldn't be here,” Arthur says, lifting his head to speak but not looking at Merlin. “Go back by the fire, keep warm.”

“Not until you go, too,” Merlin replies. His voice is quiet, but it carries easily even over the wind. “Standing here fixes nothing, Arthur.”

Arthur tightens his arms around himself, and says nothing. The cold is settling into his bones, now that there's no forward movement to warm him and keep his thoughts occupied. While they were walking and bickering, he'd almost been able to forget, almost been—not happy, not quite, but something close to it—but now his mouth feels full of ashes.

“Arthur—”

“Go to sleep,” he says. “I'll take first watch. Don't take your boots off, or they'll freeze and you'll never get them back on in the morning.”

He hears Merlin sigh, feels the warm weight of the cloak settle around his shoulders, but Merlin doesn't press further, retreats back into the cave and leaves Arthur to the storm and his own thoughts.

Merlin doesn't take long to settle down; it's not more than a few slow breaths until the soft sounds of him moving around stop, and Arthur can feel the heat of the fire swell and steady against his back, as if Merlin has raised it to fill the entire small cave while he slept. Arthur pulls his cloak closer around himself, but he doesn't try to step out of the warmth.

He knows they shouldn't have come out today. The days spent carefully dancing through negotiations with the Mercia delegation have taken too much time away from his usual duties, and Arthur doesn't have time available to waste in hunting to begin with. His life belongs to Camelot, always has, but now his very being is tied to her; every breath he takes, every word he speaks, is for her. He exists for Camelot, and he doesn't understand how anyone could ever think differently. 

He doesn't understand how anyone could ever think otherwise—except he _does_ , he does know, had thought the same himself for too many years to avoid it. He'd spent most of his life thinking it, and it's not the Mercian delegate's fault for implying the same. In the middle of dark nights, Arthur can still hear his father's voice clearly, ringing strong in its conviction, and as hard as Arthur fights against it the little doubts creep in. Daylight generally brings an easing, but it's only a temporary reprieve, and anyway, the sun had gone and there are long hours to wait until morning.

Arthur isn't in thrall to any sorcerer, isn't under the control of anyone or any thing but Camelot, but uncertainty is easy; easier still when things go wrong. 

The storm's growing stronger, piling snow up around his boots, and Arthur turns away from it, taking slow steps back toward the fire. He keeps his distance from it at first, just watching. Merlin is slumped in on himself, half-propped against the wall, and when he's sure Merlin is fast asleep he comes close, tugging the bedroll up where it's slipped down from Merlin's shoulder. He retreats again when Merlin moves and mumbles, and stations himself halfway between the fire and the mouth of the cave, wrapping his cloak firmly around himself and drawing his knees up to create a hollow of air for his body to heat. It's not actually that cold in the cave, between Merlin's magic and the snow piling up as a windbreak along the entrance, and Arthur means to stay awake and keep watch, as he'd promised, but he hasn't slept properly in at least a fortnight, and it isn't long before his eyes slip closed and he doesn't have the strength to pry them open again.

*

It's still dark when he wakes, though he knows it must be morning. Merlin is still sleeping, sprawled close to the unchanged, crackling fire. Arthur stretches the stiffness out of his muscles, wincing at the pull in his back, the warning twinge in his knees, and looks toward the opening of the cave. It's been filled entirely with snow during the night, which at least explains why the light is so faint despite every sense he has telling him the morning is already well-advanced. He's concerned for a moment, but when he goes over to examine it, he finds that the snow along the very top of it is thinly packed; when he pushes it out of the way, he's further relieved to note that although the snow is deep, it won't be over either of their heads; they aren't trapped.

The world has gone hushed and brilliant under a pristine sky—after the filtered dimness of the cave, the sudden glitter makes Arthur's eyes water, overcome. He feels a gentle touch at this temple, a whisper from Merlin, and the painful glare dims, just enough for him to look around and get his bearings.

“Good,” Arthur says, instead of the words struggling in his throat. “You're up. We should move.”

Snow is deep on the ground, a heavy rug spread lush and generous around them, broken only by the fresh tracks of a lone hare. The morning is a beautiful one, sparkling and fresh in the way that is only possible after heavy snowfall, when the world is buried and made new as life sleeps beneath its white mantle. Arthur takes a deep breath through his nose, and another; he feels looser, a bit, than he had the night before, but the heaviness hangs from his shoulders still, pulls his spine and spirit tense the longer he stands in place.

They need to move; he turns back to get the packs Merlin has left at the back of the cave. He considers the fire for a moment, wary, but it goes out with barely a flicker the moment he raises his boot to it. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, before opening them again and walking to the mouth of the cave. Merlin's eating snow, picking up handfuls of the stuff with his hand, which is protected by what appears suspiciously very like Arthur's spare tunic. The snow looks blue in its shadows as he cups it up and raises it to his lips, and Arthur watches for too long, the packs at his feet, transfixed by the contrast: Merlin's red lips against the cold brightness of the snow.

He shakes himself. “Stop that,” he orders Merlin. “It'll only make you thirstier.”

Merlin shrugs and takes another bite. “The water in the skin's frozen. This is better than nothing.”

“You really are useless,” Arthur says, shaking his head in disbelief, and hands his own skin over. “Didn't you learn anything the time we spent a month on campaign, just after midwinter?”

“That was years ago. I forgot.”

_Hopeless_ , Arthur wants to say. He wants to say _useless, pathetic_ , any number of the words he still flings at Merlin routinely, their edges worn down soft from use until they're no longer sharp at all, only the strangest sort of comfort. They feel too heavy in his mouth, though, as if they might fall if he speaks them, crash into the new morning and shatter it into something ugly, and Arthur is too afraid, suddenly, to risk that.

“Come on,” he says instead, taking his first step outside, pushing through the piled snow. “I'll lead; you carry the packs.”

It's slow going. The snow is up to their hips in some places, and once Arthur misjudges and ends up belly-deep in a drift. The woods are nearly silent but for distant birdsong and the soft thump of snow falling from branches as the day warms, and Arthur would enjoy the peace except for the burning of the cold air in his chest, the burn of exertion in his legs as he pushes on. He's set a careful pace—in summer, on foot, they'd be half a day's easy walk from the castle, but the snow slows them to a crawl; they'll be lucky to make it home before nightfall. If they do have to spend another night outside Camelot's walls...Arthur's not concerned for himself, but with the snow this deep, they've little hope of finding anything to eat, and Merlin's been worryingly silent since they begin walking, struggling behind in the trail Arthur's breaking. 

Arthur worries about his people, about those who may have gone to Camelot to seek shelter or counsel or aid, only to find that their king is not at his post. He picks up his pace, setting his jaw and pushing forward, unwilling to slow.

Mid-morning, they come across a small copse of heavy-needled hemlock, the space underneath the wide branches nearly free of snow. Arthur makes his way toward it, stumbling and nearly falling without the weight of a snow bank to hold him up.

“Arthur?” Merlin's close behind him; Arthur hears him drop the packs as he closes a hand around Arthur's arm above the elbow.

“I'm fine,” Arthur says, curt.

Merlin's makes the peculiar face which means he doesn't believe a word, but he doesn't say anything, just watches Arthur settle his back against a tree to rest.

Arthur tips his head back against the rough bark of the trunk. “There should be some bread left,” he says, letting his eyes close. “You should eat something.”

“You mean _you_ should eat,” Merlin says. Arthur doesn't reply, and after a moment he hears Merlin grubbing around in the packs, muttering to himself.

“Here,” Merlin says, closer, and Arthur's startled into opening his eyes. Merlin's holding out a bit of bread with cheese and what Arthur suspects is the last of the smoked venison; he sighs and thrusts it closer to Arthur when Arthur hesitates. “There's more here, you prat.”

“I'm sure you've saved the choicest bits for yourself,” Arthur says, dryly. Merlin gives him a cheery smile.

“Of course I did. I saved the mouldy parts especially for you; I know you like those best.”

Arthur thinks about replying, but in the end he only eats his bread slowly, taking small sips of water before beginning to nibble the cheese. He isn't very hungry. 

He watches as Merlin busies himself cutting small branches from the trees and laying them in a cross-hatch until he has a sort of bed, which he covers with his cloak before he lies down and stares up at the underside of the trees. “We aren't stopping for long,” Arthur warns. “We've a fair way to travel yet.”

Merlin tucks his hands behind his head. “Of course, sire.”

Arthur studies him, puzzling through his tone, but Merlin is unreadable. He's humming, staring up through the branches to the sky, his quilted jacket open—odd, Arthur thinks, frowning, because Merlin's barely wearing anything against the weather and yet he doesn't look cold. He looks warm and comfortable and suspiciously dry and...

Of course, Arthur realizes, a familiar sick feeling jolting in the bottom of his belly before fading away once more. Merlin's using magic. 

He turns away.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, quietly, and Arthur knows that voice, he _knows it_ ; it means Merlin has been watching him again, carefully measuring his every move and weighing it deep inside, hidden where Arthur can't catch him at it.

Arthur doesn't reply. He hears Merlin shift on the branches, and tries to ignore the way the cold bites into him as his body loses the heat he'd worked up when he was moving.

“Arthur.”

“Leave it, Merlin.”

The branches shift again, a soft, muffled noise against the snow. Merlin sighs, a sound so faint it's nearly silent.

“Have you been using magic all day?” It isn't the question Arthur wants to ask, but as he'll never ask that question, this one will do.

“More or less.”

A flash of red streaks by at the corner of Arthur's vision; he turns his head to see a handsome bird as big as his hand perch on a low-hanging branch, surveying the landscape, and he watches it until it shakes its feathers and wings away. “You could have broken the path for us easily, couldn't you?”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Is there anything you _can't_ do?”

“Arthur.”

Arthur drops his head to the side, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his eyes with his fingers, the space where all his headaches begin once spring has melted the ice and brought forth all her splendour in a riotous display of flowers and newborn calves and all manner of things which make him sneeze. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

There's more movement, the whisper of Merlin's jacket and trousers and the muffled crunch of snow beneath his boots before he's in front of Arthur, kneeling and looking unbearably earnest.

“Arthur, what's this about?”

Arthur doesn't chance meeting his eyes. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Merlin scowls. “We went hunting in a blizzard. Don't try to pretend nothing's wrong.”

“It isn't pretending.”

“A _blizzard_.”

“Shut up, it was not.” Merlin snorts, and Arthur can't help but relent, can't help the fondness that wells up in him at that familiar sound. “It's nothing important. Just some poison the Mercians tried to whisper in my ear when no one else was paying attention.”

“Oh.” Merlin's quiet for a moment, watching Arthur as Arthur watches the woods, and the thoughts he must be sifting through shine through in the syllable, and Arthur knows it's only a matter of time before Merlin matches the facts together and arrives at his conclusion, only a moment before Merlin realises—“Oh, Arthur.”

“I told you it was nothing important,” Arthur says, too-sharp, and Merlin reaches out, as if he's going to pat Arthur's knee. He takes Arthur's hand instead, surprising Arthur into looking at him. 

“It is,” Merlin says. “But I thought we'd already had this conversation. Twice. I couldn't do it, Arthur. I can't. My magic won't let me, and even if it could, I would never do anything like that. Does your sword control where you swing it?”

Arthur could argue, has argued, but here in the snow, in the middle of a silent forest, he's too suddenly exhausted with something that feels almost like relief. “You're more than a sword.”

Merlin shrugs, sitting back on his heels and dropping Arthur's hand. “Flashier, maybe. But I can no more force you to do something than you can control me.” Arthur purses his lips, and Merlin scowls. “In anything _important_ , Arthur; the outfits and hours and hours of dreadful councils you force me into are different.”

“I've no idea why I bring you to council,” Arthur agrees. “Surely it isn't for your sparkling displays of idiocy; it must be the faces you make whenever Kay speaks.” He feels as if he's thawing out, the cold bands receding, loosening around his chest—and he _is_ growing warmer, he realises.

“ _I_ have no idea why I stick around here to take this abuse,” Merlin grumbles. “Prat.” Despite the words, Arthur feels his fingers tingle as they heat up within the thin leather of his gloves, and it feels too much like forgiveness to bother taking real offence at Merlin's tone.

He thinks about saying something—about saying thank you, perhaps too softly for Merlin to hear the words—but he knows he never will. He concentrates on scratching his fingers through the snow instead, until Merlin moves, sliding his body over to lean against the tree next to Arthur, his legs stretched long in front of him. They're quiet together, their breath puffing into tiny clouds before their faces as the branches of the hemlock creak comfortingly above them from the cold.

“I feel foolish,” Arthur says after a long time. Merlin doesn't move; Arthur can almost pretend Merlin can't hear, that he's confiding to the air and the stillness of the forest.

“You aren't,” says Merlin, without moving. Arthur presses a hand against the trunk of the tree, feeling for the ridges of the bark. 

“I've always been too easy to trust.”

Merlin elbows him, hard; Arthur jumps and glares. “You aren't,” Merlin says, sounding exasperated. “And even if you were, trust isn't a bad thing.”

“My father always said trust was useless, even after it was earned.”

“Nothing's useless,” Merlin says, and Arthur can feel his anger now, simmering beneath his skin. Merlin's temper isn't as quick as it used to be—though his never matched Arthur's own—but Arthur knows he can still be pushed through it into painful honesty, knows Uther is the easiest road to sparking Merlin's complicated sense of righteous, guilty anger. “And _trust_ certainly isn't useless. Trust is just...it's hope. A hope in the goodness of people, and hope is never a foolish thing.”

Arthur makes a sound in his throat. It isn't that he disagrees, exactly—it's just that he's heard Merlin say this before, and he's never quite been able to believe it.

“Nothing's useless if you have hope,” Merlin says, and Arthur thinks of the days he looks at the throne and feels only a hollowness in his breast; the days it takes him too long to remember it's not his father's throne any more. There's still an empty feeling he fights against on those days, even now, a terrible dread that eats whatever hope he holds to until it takes all his strength just to stand. “Hope is what drives men, Arthur; it's what we're using to build Albion.”

“I'm glad,” Arthur says, and pauses. “I'm glad you have enough hope for both of us, Merlin.”

Merlin reaches out and curls his fingers around Arthur's own, squeezing them without speaking, and they sit there listening to the soft noises of the forest, watching the blue shadows move and lengthen beneath the distant sun.

After a long while, Arthur says, “Leon must be going frantic.”

“I'm sure they're already rounding up a search party,” says Merlin. “After all, it isn't as if you _ever_ disappear into the woods for days.”

Arthur feels himself colour at that, then shifts and climbs to his feet, moving awkwardly because when he tries to let go of Merlin's hand, Merlin only tightens his grip, forcing Arthur to pull him upright as well.

“Wait,” Merlin says when Arthur tries to step away, move forward, and when Arthur stops, he whistles.

It's nothing special, nothing close to a song, but in moments there's a rustling flash of wings and an owl is sitting just above them, staring down, impassive. 

Merlin gives an odd little bow. “Hello, Archimedes,” he says.

“Merlin,” Arthur hisses, but Merlin ignores him. 

“Merlin,” the owl says solemnly, and Arthur shouldn't be surprised, really, not after all this time, but he still starts, barely controlling the twitch that threatens to send him stumbling. 

“I was wondering,” Merlin says. “I thought, since Arthur's managed to get us stuck in the middle of the woods in the deepest snow of the season, that you might let someone in Camelot know we're fine, that we're on our way home?”

The owl stares at him, and blinks one slow eye. “Must I?”

“Of course not. Just, we'll be later than we were expecting, and Arthur will worry the whole way if we can't tell anyone we're fine.”

Arthur flushes again as the owl swivels its head to fix him with an evaluating stare. He stands straighter and stares back until the owl ruffles its feathers and says, severely, “I am expecting proper compensation, you realise.”

“I know,” Merlin says quickly. “I'll make sure of it.” 

The owl rearranges its feathers again, stares at Arthur, and spreads its wings without another word, flying up past the branches of the trees and into the distant cloudless sky. Arthur watches its flight with something close to admiration—what must it be like, that sort of freedom, the power to grow smaller and smaller until one finally disappears against the horizon? He thinks, for a moment, about feeling envious of the owl—of Archimedes—but in the end the only jealousy he can work up is for the pure sensation of it; he doesn't actually want to pack his life in and fly away. There's still far too much left to be done.

“Merlin,” he says, striving to keep his voice stern as a different thought occurs to him. “Did you just bow to an owl?”

Merlin thinks about his answer for a moment; Arthur is sure he's evaluating which answer will annoy Arthur the most. “Yes,” he agrees. 

“You'll bow to an owl but you forget _every time_ to bow to me whenever we're entertaining guests of state?”

“I remember sometimes!”

Arthur purses his lips against the smile that's begin to threaten. “Are you suggesting that I, the king of Camelot, am less deserving of respect than a mere owl?”

“Oh, he's not an ordinary owl,” Merlin assures him. “Archimedes has far better manners than you do.”

Arthur laughs. It's startled out of him, the noise, and then, since he's already begun, he gives into it, lets the laughter shake loose all the pieces of him which have been pulled up tight from the miserable weeks of being trapped within stone walls deliberating trade agreements and border disputes. Merlin smiles back at him, linking their fingers more firmly together, and Arthur kisses him, allows himself this one small indulgence: the dry press of Merlin's lips against his own, the easy way Merlin tilts his head into it, the familiar smell carried in Merlin's skin.

“Come on,” Merlin says when Arthur breaks free once more, though neither of them move. “I'll move the snow if you carry the packs. I hope you know where you're going.”

“Don't you know, Merlin? I always know where I'm going,” Arthur says in his loftiest tone, and steals one more soft kiss before setting his face toward Camelot.

He doesn't let go of Merlin's hand.

*


End file.
